


one plus one is two (that’s me and you)

by nishtabel



Series: keep with me in the moment [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: D/s undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, FWB, Face-Fucking, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, alternatively titled: sylvain won't pick up what dimitri's putting down
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Sylvain and Dimitri struggle to define the relationship they’re rapidly growing into. They’re still friends, they still have benefits—they just might also be in love. Sylvain handles this in the only way he knows how: by asking Dimitri to take control.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: keep with me in the moment [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659250
Comments: 31
Kudos: 182





	one plus one is two (that’s me and you)

**Author's Note:**

> part 1 of the fabled “valentine’s dimivain”! please enjoy, and thank you all so much for your patience.
> 
> NOTE: it is recommended, but not totally necessary, that you read “[just like candy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950695)” first. ;)

It starts off gentle, because it always does. Five months into their arrangement, and Dimitri still begins each kiss with a quiet hum and a full-body shiver. Invariably, his hands find Sylvain’s shoulders as he tips forward, grasping for purchase, big body unsteady and wild beneath Sylvain’s fingers. Sylvain is in control, is always in control: he begins the kiss; he slips his tongue into Dimitri’s mouth; he climbs into Dimitri’s lap on the couch, or the bed, or the mismatched chairs around the kitchen table. Sylvain guides Dimitri like he always does, with one hand curled around his arm and the other trailing down the hard planes of his stomach, tempering the broken, stuttered thrusts that Dimitri offers in return. Sylvain allows him to be gentle, allows Dimitri’s callused hands to skirt the crest of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the swell of his pec—and Sylvain _allows_ it because he knows Dimitri is just as scared, as nervous and skittish and desperate as he was the first time.

So Sylvain is the one in control. It’s three p.m. on a Tuesday, a quiet hour, a cancelled meeting for Sylvain. He hadn’t expected Dimitri to be home when he’d shown up—had, honestly, expected to raid his fridge and take a nap in Dimitri’s sweatpants—but surely it was a blessing, because Dimitri’s dogs ran amok outside, and Dimitri had Sylvain pinned against the door within seconds.

But it was gentle. Sylvain is in control.

Dimitri smells of sweat and yardwork and freshly cut grass, and normally Sylvain would bemoan the lack of winters in California, but there are grass stains on Dimitri’s fraying jeans, a light wash hung low on his hips, and Sylvain suddenly wishes for nothing but summers. Dimitri’s hair is tied back and Sylvain likes that, he does, like the way it lets him count those soft freckles in between kisses, smooth a thumb across Dimitri’s sun-flushed cheeks as he pulls him closer—but what Sylvain likes even _more_ is tugging Dimitri’s hair loose from its bright blue scrunchie, tossing the elastic across the room, and burying his hands in Dimitri’s fine, damp hair. It’s slick and it’s wet and Sylvain knows Dimitri is covered in dirt and grass and sweat, _so much sweat_ , but the cling of his shirt to his chest is enough for Sylvain to go weak in the knees.

“Bed?” Sylvain asks, because there’s a growing heat between his legs, the press of his half-hard cock against the inside of his slacks becoming uncomfortable. No matter where they start, no matter where Sylvain first grabs at Dimitri, first palms his thick cock through his jeans, Dimitri always insists they find a bed. (Sylvain considers himself lucky that Dimitri finds most couches a good substitute.)

“Mm,” Dimitri hums against him, thigh slipping between Sylvain’s legs. Dimitri’s taller than Sylvain, just barely, just enough to force Sylvain onto the balls of his feet when Dimitri presses _up_. Sylvain gasps, and Dimitri says, “The door seems comfortable enough.”

The heat of Dimitri’s thigh against his groin is unfair, a tug at the loose thread of Sylvain’s resolve. Sylvain laughs with a sharp inhale, fingers tightening in Dimitri’s hair. “Have you been drinking?” Surely he has—there’s no other reason he would be so forward.

“Not drinking,” Dimitri says, and he doesn’t _sound_ drunk. “Just drunk on you.”

“Gross.” Sylvains says it with a laugh, a sharp roll of his hips against Dimitri’s leg, a shudder and a groan and the arch of his back. He lets Dimitri move him, manhandle him, lets Dimitri’s palm scald him through the crisp white of his dress shirt. “I’ll make you pay for drycleaning.”

Dimitri hums, lips hot and wet at Sylvain’s jugular. “You’ll need more than that when I’m done with you.” His hands find Sylvain’s nipples through his shirt, pebbled as they are, and there’s dirt beneath his nails but Sylvain doesn’t _care_ , arching into the touch, the sharp drag of cotton that teases almost as much as Dimitri.

“I’d like to see you try,” is what Sylvain manages. There’s a scrape of teeth against his throat, blunt and dangerous, and there’s a moment of reprieve when Dimitri’s hands leave Sylvain’s nipples—only to resettle at the swell of Sylvain’s ass.

“Love your ass,” Dimitri murmurs, breath hot against Sylvain’s neck. “You don’t let me play with it enough.”

“I _do_ —”

“Mm.” Dimitri squeezes at the swell of him, tests the straining of his pants, before pulling him forward onto the hot pressure of his thigh. “You’ve hardly let me touch it since Christmas.”

 _Christmas_. Sylvain feels his entire body heat at the mention of it, of—

“Christmas Eve,” Sylvain corrects, because it’s the only shred of dignity he has left. His arms are curled around Dimitri’s shoulders, fingers knotted in his hair, and he can feel Dimitri against the hard swell of his cock, the threat of him, long and thick and wet, slick with precum, greedy and flushed—

“You stayed for Christmas,” Dimitri says, gentler now, almost vulnerable. Sylvain would call him on it, he would, except he can feel the blunt tips of Dimitri’s fingers digging into his ass, spreading him even in his slacks.

“Half of it,” Sylvain gasps, through a particularly brilliant roll of his hips. His vision is growing dark at the edges; everything is Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri. “You burnt the pancakes—”

“You ate them anyway.” There’s a hand at the fly of his pants, a thumb that teases the thatch of curls just above his waistline. He’s worked his shirt untucked, wrinkled, and even if it’s not stained with dirt by the end of this, the sweat that drips between his shoulder-blades will be enough to warrant drycleaning.

Sylvain means to correct Dimitri, he really does—something along the lines of, “You saw me eat a chip off the floor of an elevator, once,” or, even better, “I was hungry, fuck you,” but—there’s a hand on his cock, rough and hot and far too dry, but the slick that drips from the head helps, just a bit. They’ve been doing this long enough for Dimitri to know what he likes, for Dimitri to start with the cockhead, a flick of his thumb over the leaking slit, and Sylvain’s already so _close_ , it’s not fair.

“Dimitri,” Sylvain whines, pants, begs, rocking eagerly into the press of his hand, the careful curl of fingers around his shaft. “Dimitri, come _on_.”

“Sure you wouldn’t rather go to the bed?” Dimitri asks, and he’s teasing.

“Fuck you.”

“Not today, _babe_ ,” and that’s not _fair_. Dimitri doesn’t get to say “babe,” doesn’t get to use Sylvain’s own words against him, doesn’t get to tease and grope and control—

Sylvain’s supposed to be in control.

But there’s a knee spreading his legs, a hand at his ass, the leisurely tug of Dimitri’s fingers around his cock, and Sylvain decides he’ll allow it. And isn’t that decision a conscious act of giving up power? Isn’t Sylvain technically still calling the shots, if he’s only _allowing_ Dimitri to do this? Allowing Dimitri to—to use him, like this? And if it feels good—

Sylvain clings to Dimitri as he strokes Sylvain, rides Dimitri’s thigh, buries his hands in Dimitri’s hair and tugs Dimitri’s face to his neck. There’s a nuzzle, a warning groan, and then the sharp bite of teeth over his jugular, hot against the frantic thudding of his pulse-point. Two pulls of Dimitri’s hand against Sylvain’s cock, and he’s coming, wailing as he throws his head back against the door. There’s a vague recognition of pain, a dull aching, but mostly it’s Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri—

He comes down slowly.

Dimitri eases his knee from between Sylvain’s thighs, and the release of pressure almost sends Sylvain to the ground. Dimitri balances him with his hands against Sylvain’s elbows, a worried duck of his head, a ruffle of Sylvain’s hair. Sylvain shivers, blinks, tests the weight of his body against the flat press of his feet against the floor. His knees shake, his thighs are burning, but he’s steady, and slowly, slowly, there’s blood returning to his head.

“Dimitri,” Sylvain says, croaks, and leans against him. He’s allowed this moment of weakness, after being fucked against the door. “You—”

“Shh.” Dimitri cuts him off, a warm palm against his cheek.

“Better not be the hand you brought me off with,” Sylvain slurs. He knows it’s not.

“Looks like you could use a nap,” Dimitri says, instead of answering. “I think a bed would be good for that.”

“Not yet.” Sylvain’s hands flex where they grasp Dimitri’s arms, the bulge of his muscles, damp with half-dried sweat and a grass stain at his elbow. “Gotta return the favor.”

Dimitri’s hand is warm beneath his chin, a gentle chuck. “You don’t have to.” His eyes are blue, blue, blue, and Sylvain blinks against them. His gaze is hazy, and Dimitri’s is sharp. He feels seen.

“Gotta,” Sylvain says, because—if he allows Dimitri to offer him pleasure, Sylvain has to give it back. There can’t be a debt.

Sylvain has to be in control.

He slides gracefully to the ground, helped in part by the fact that his knees are boneless and weak. He hopes the gentle swaying of his body strikes Dimitri as sexy, because when Sylvain reaches up to tug at Dimitri’s zipper, he can’t stop the trembling of his fingers. Dimitri’s cock is hard and wet and pressed painfully at the front of his jeans, and when Sylvain cups the bulge of it in his shaking hand, it swells against him.

“You like that?” he murmurs, keeping his eyes on Dimitri’s groin. “You like seeing me on my knees for you?” Dimitri’s cock twitches in his hand, desperate and very much into the idea. “Good boy,” Sylvain purrs, and when Dimitri’s cock jumps again, he begins to slowly unzip Dimitri’s jeans.

Dimitri’s got one hand on Sylvain’s shoulder, one hand in his hair, and when Sylvain’s open mouth finally finds the swell of Dimitri’s cock through his underwear, both hands clench against him. It’s hot and it’s sweet, a warm, molten afterglow that rubs through Sylvain’s body at each tug of Dimitri’s fingers at his hair. Dimitri smells like sweat and musk and grass, a little bit like dirt, but mostly he smells like _Dimitri_ , just—dirtier. Rougher. He should tell him to shower, to at least rinse his dick off, but there’s something intoxicating about how completely, how fully Dimitri’s scent surrounds him. It’s warm and damp and just shy of gross, and Sylvain finds himself leaning in, face pressed against the warning heat of Dimitri’s cock.

He’s good at this. This, he can do. He wets the front of Dimitri’s boxers with his tongue, stretching his mouth lewdly over the head of Dimitri’s cock and sucking through the fabric. It’s heady and it’s salty, sweat and precum bright on his tongue, and when Dimitri bucks against his face, Sylvain thinks that maybe this isn’t the time for teasing.

“Want my mouth on you?” Sylvain whispers, glancing up through lowered lashes. He knows what he looks like: flushed and debauched and sex-drunk, post-orgasm and still lazily rolling his hips in time with Dimitri’s rocking. This is Sylvain at his most powerful.

“Yes,” Dimitri replies, and it comes out as a hiss. His hand clenches in Sylvain’s hair, tugs him closer, pushes his face against the wet stretch of fabric.

Sylvain hums. “You’ve been so good for me,” he says, because it’s true. There’s an odd, irregular swelling in his chest when he says it, something that catches on _good_ , and there’s a hitch in his breath as he lowers Dimitri’s boxers with his jeans.

Dimitri stands proud, as he always does: long and thick and dripping from the tip, his cock juts out just above the band of his underwear. Swallowing, Sylvain chases a bead of precum from the shaft to the head, tongue flat against the heat of it. He sucks, briefly, just at the tip, closing his lips around the head and moaning. This isn’t what he’s after, not yet, but he loves the stretch of it, the weight of it against his tongue. 

When Dimitri’s hand tightens in his hair, a warning, feral thing, Sylvain pulls off. Pressing a parting kiss just below the head, Sylvain leans forward, burying his nose in coarse, blond curls. He settles into it, lets his eyes flutter shut, allowing himself a moment to soak in Dimitri’s scent. He’s got one hand lightly curled around Dimitri’s cock, just holding it, stroking gently, barely enough to tease, and he thinks he could stay like this: on his knees for Dimitri, loose and boneless, surrounded on all sides.

Spurring himself to action, moving as though through molasses, Sylvain nuzzles the base of Dimitri’s cock, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his throbbing pulse. He can feel it through his lips, the rush of blood that thunders beneath Dimitri’s skin, and it’s the twitch of Dimitri’s cock, the smear of it against Sylvain’s cheek, that encourages him to pull back. 

He licks his lips and glances up, bracing his palms on Dimitri’s thighs. “You ready for this, big boy?” he says, because already his own cock is stirring, an ache that coils tightly, painfully, into pleasure below his navel.

“Sylvain—”

“Fuck my mouth.” It’s an order, or rather it would be, were it not for the whine that claws its way from Sylvain’s throat. “I can take it.”

“Are you—”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Sylvain says, because if he thinks about it any longer, he’s going to curl in on himself and never emerge. “I’ll tap out if I need to.”

“Sylvain,” Dimitri tries again, but Sylvain’s mouth is already on his cock, already wrapping around the head of him, the slow, slick-slide of him. Sylvain is halfway down Dimitri’s shaft by the time Dimitri shudders and nods, fisting both hands in Sylvain’s hair and giving an experimental tug. When Sylvain’s eyes flutter shut—when Sylvain’s mouth opens wider, wetter, when a moan vibrates along the length of him—Dimitri finally thrusts, once, twice, a stuttering third time.

It grows in urgency, and Sylvain finds himself relaxing into it. He doesn’t offer this often to Dimitri, in part because Dimitri is always so hesitant to take him up on it, but this: Dimitri’s hands in his hair, Dimitri’s cock in his throat, Dimitri’s thighs flexing thick and hard against his hands— _this_ is what Sylvain wants, what he needs, what he finds himself thinking of each time he palms his own cock in the shower. He wants the burn of it on his knees, the ache in the back of his throat, the hot swell of his lips and the spit that dries on his chin. He wants Dimitri, always wants Dimitri, but Sylvain especially wants him like _this_.

There are tears on his lashes, on his cheeks, and each time Dimitri thrusts in, Sylvain can feel himself drool around his cock. It’s hard to breathe, harder still to think, and by the time he tastes precum, thick and salty and _warning_ , against the back of his throat, he can do nothing but slacken his jaw and whine.

Dimitri’s big hands tighten in Sylvain’s hair, pull him onto his cock, forcing him to swallow around it. Sylvain gags but doesn’t tap out, instead pulling Dimitri closer, shutting his eyes against the tears that spill onto his cheeks.

Then—Dimitri’s coming, thrusting hard and erratic into Sylvain’s abused mouth, spilling down his throat and holding him there. Sylvain swallows, of course he does, and when Dimitri begins to soften, Sylvain releases him with a breathless whine.

Dimitri’s hand is on his cheek, soft and warm and wiping at his tears. “Hey,” he says, and Sylvain’s eyes flutter open. “You okay?”

 _Am I okay?_ Sylvain thinks. He coughs, splutters, licks his lips. “Yeah,” he replies, and finds that he means it. His head feels light, woozy, thoughts hazy and hard to grasp. He coughs again and rubs his jaw. “Help me up?”

Dimitri does.

“That was amazing,” Dimitri murmurs, lips right at Sylvain’s ear. “You were so—beautiful, like that.”

“Mm,” Sylvain says, swaying lightly in Dimitri’s grasp. His knees are weak, disobedient, and each time he takes a step, they threaten to give out. “Always knew you liked a man on his knees.”

“Not just any man.” Dimitri says it like a confession—one that Sylvain refuses to hear.

“You’re just spoiled,” he says instead.

Dimitri hums, not quite an agreement. “Let’s get you to the bed. Let me take care of you a bit.”

“Thanks, daddy.” He struggles against the arm Dimitri has thrown over his shoulders, but only on principle. “I was wondering when you would notice I was incapable of taking care of myself.”

Sylvain can’t see it, but he can hear Dimitri’s eye roll. “At least stay for a bit.”

The worst part is that Sylvain can’t find it in himself to argue. He’s bone-tired, flushed and damp with sweat, pants barely unbuttoned, his soft cock still pulled up against his belly. If he takes a nap now, it’ll be too late to clean up without a shower. He’ll wake up crumpled and more than a little crusty, legs sore and throat hoarse, without a change of clothes.

But he’ll get to wear Dimitri’s sweatpants.

“Couch,” Sylvain says, and thinks of it as an order. Dimitri obeys.

Dimitri helps him stumble to the couch, guiding a bit too much for Sylvain’s ego, but his hands feel nice and warm against his waist. He strips from his pants and his shirt and tosses them on top of Dimitri’s own stack of dirty clothes, because Dimitri’s bad habits are contagious. They’ve fought about keeping a pile of dirty clothes in every room—“This is a _living room_ , Dimitri!”—but now isn’t the time. Now, Sylvain settles against the plush pillows of Dimitri’s couch and firmly ignores the fact that it smells like dog.

“Don’t get used to this,” he says, eyes half-open and unfocused. He says it every time, and he thinks that someday, he might mean it. His limbs are loose, overworked, and he has enough sense to feel bad—he’s gonna steal Dimitri’s sweatpants and never give them back. It feels vindictive in his head, except he knows that Dimitri will _insist_ he keep them, which ruins all the fun.

Sylvain doesn’t even flinch when Dimitri smooths his hair from his face and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Gonna blow you more from now on,” Sylvain says, because it feels powerful. It’s not submission if he _asks_ to be wrecked. His eyes are open just enough to watch the flush that spreads from Dimitri’s ears to his cheeks to his throat, leaving his whole face red. It’s cute.

“I’d like that,” says Dimitri. “You’re good at it.”

Sylvain laughs without knowing why, barely cognizant and focused only on the flutter of Dimitri’s eyelashes against his cheekbones. “’Night, Dima,” he says. There’s a hum in his throat, a quiet contentment. It settles into his bones.

Dimitri pets him until he falls asleep, and when he wakes up, it’s dark.

* * *

Two weeks later, Sylvain finds himself curled up on that same couch. He and Dimitri have a veritable buffet spread out in front of them: half-eaten carryout cartons, plastic bowls, and plates of rice and vegetables fill the coffee table. Sylvain had arrived hungry, of course, and when Dimitri had offered leftovers, Sylvain had scoffed and told him to at least order him _new_ Chinese.

Dimitri had, it seemed, ordered the entire menu.

They’d made it halfway through the meal before Sylvain had gasped and said, “Oh, yeah,” and leapt for his briefcase. (It’s a briefcase, not a satchel. The shoulder strap is for convenience only.) He’d returned to Dimitri with a battered Altoids tin, grinning bright from ear to ear.

“Mercie hooked us up,” he says, handing the tin to Dimitri. “Figured we could relax a bit.”

Dimitri says nothing through his mouthful of lo mein. Swallowing, he looks dead at Sylvain and says, “I’ve never relaxed a day in my life.” It’s a joke, but sometimes Sylvain wonders.

“It’s your lucky day, then.” Sylvain gestures at Dimitri to open it. When he finally does—only after wiping his fingers on a dirty napkin—Sylvain watches him blink twice, before shutting the tin again.

“You brought weed,” Dimitri says, concern etched between his brows. Sylvain watches the line of his throat as he swallows.

“I did,” says Sylvain. Taking the tin back from Dimitri, he adds, “I already rolled them. And I brought a lighter, because I knew you wouldn’t have one.”

“I have a long one we could use.” By _long one_ , Sylvain knows he means the kind of lighter used to light a grill.

“You only use it for candles,” Sylvain accuses. When Dimitri doesn’t correct him, he moves on. “ _Anyway_.” He opens the tin again, sets it on the table between their sweet and sour chicken and a bucket of fried rice, and pulls a lighter from his back pocket. “Figured I could smoke you up tonight.”

Dimitri still looks unsure. Sylvain sighs. “I know you don’t smoke often,” he says. “But if you’re afraid of embarrassing yourself, I can make it easier on you.”

“Try never,” Dimitri replies, abashed. “I just—”

“Don’t get the chance, don’t wanna buy it yourself, don’t know how to do it—I know, I know.” Sylvain shrugs. “It’s not a test, Dimitri. Just a fun night, okay?”

Dimitri blinks balefully at him, made all the worse by the sauce stuck to his chin, the corners of his mouth. “Okay,” he finally says. Then, after a beat: “I’m just—afraid I’ll start coughing. Felix always used to make fun of me for it.”

“Yeah, and Felix is an asshole.” It doesn’t surprise him, though; Sylvain knows that Felix and Dimitri had a brief tryst in college. It had ended terribly, because of course it had, but there was only so much resentment one could harbor after a failed two-month relationship of mostly drinking and fooling around. Sylvain has watched them go through worse. “If you don’t want to, just say so. More for me, you know?”

Dimitri nods, slowly, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. He’s thinking about it. “I’d like to,” he says, after a beat. “Just—go easy on me, okay?”

Sylvain grins, wolfish. “You got it.”

It’s only after they’ve cleaned up that they acknowledge the tin again. It sits in the middle of the coffee table in all its old, battered glory, buffeted by Sylvain’s lighter and a glass of water. “In case I start coughing,” Dimitri had said.

“Alright,” Sylvain says, and settles in. He kneels in front of the coffee table, crossing his legs just below it, and motions at Dimitri to join him. “Get comfy.”

Dimitri does. Or—he tries to. He sits next to Sylvain, on his knees with his ankles crossed beneath him.

“Legs’ll fall asleep like that,” Sylvain warns. Dimitri slumps onto his ass and crosses his legs, appropriately chastened. “Good boy. Ready?”

“Born ready.” Dimitri’s eyes are focused intensely on Sylvain’s hands, following their movement as Sylvain reaches for the lighter and the first joint.

Sylvain lights up with ease, the action a vestigial habit from high school. He takes a few starting pulls, making sure the end stays lit, before exhaling and offering the joint to Dimitri. “Should be good now,” he says.

Dimitri reaches to take it, stopping just short of Sylvain’s fingers. He’s nervous, Sylvain realizes—not just shy or virginal, but _nervous_.

Sylvain frowns. “It’s alright if you don’t want to.” He holds the joint to his lips, inhales to keep it burning. He offers it to Dimitri again, watching the careful consideration of his face. Sylvain knows Dimitri’s not straight edge—he’s certainly not _drug free_ —but there’s a tension in his shoulders that won’t let go.

“I want to,” Dimitri says. He _sounds_ sure.

“Okay.” Sylvain takes him at his word. “Let’s try something else, then.” If Dimitri’s being honest—if it’s really just coughing he’s worried about—then Sylvain will just have to make it easier for him.

He can do that.

Sylvain considers his hands for a moment, the lit joint between his thumb and forefinger. He glances back at Dimitri. “Gotta trust me on this one,” he says, warns, and waits for Dimitri to nod.

“Always,” Dimitri responds. His eyes are so bright, so blue.

Sylvain blinks, grins. It’s so easy to believe him. “’Atta boy,” he says. “Just inhale when I exhale.”

Dimitri nods, brows knit and mouth pulled into a concentrated frown. He’s committed himself, gaze intense, and it weren’t for the soft lull of food and smoke, Sylvain might feel the back of his neck itch. Dimitri is so _genuine_.

Sylvain holds Dimitri’s gaze for a moment longer before bringing the joint to his lips, pulling long and steady and letting the smoke fill his mouth, his lungs. He holds it, savors it against the familiar burn in the back of his throat, before leaning forward. Cupping Dimitri’s cheek, he brings their lips close to touching, before finally opening his mouth and letting the smoke curl out. It presses in tendrils against Dimitri’s face, his parted lips, before Dimitri remembers to breathe. He sucks in the smoke all at once, lashes fluttering against the soft arch of his cheekbones, and Sylvain finds himself smiling through the awe that swells in his chest.

“Hold it,” he says, thumb brushing idly against Dimitri’s face. His skin is so soft, freckled as it is. “Now exhale.”

Dimitri exhales. “Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” Sylvain replies, and his grin widens.

They blink at each other.

“Was that better?” Sylvain finally asks, pulling back just enough to put Dimitri’s face into focus. His eyes are a bit hazy, half-lidded, lips still parted. There’s a flush rising high on his cheeks.

“Much.” He clears his throat, glances shyly to the floor. “Thank you.”

Sylvain’s smile curls sweet and molten on his face, almost soft at the edges. In his chest, his heart beats a steady, pounding rhythm. “My pleasure,” he says, and he means it.

They do it again. Each time Sylvain leans in, Dimitri is a little more prepared: he parts his lips, lets the smoke roll in, catches it gracefully and holds it for a beat. His eyes grow glassy, a little wild, and there are crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes where he can’t stop a lazy grin from splitting his face. Their lips brush with each exhale, each inhale, and by the time they’ve finished the joint, Sylvain has crawled into Dimitri’s lap, knees bracketing strong thighs.

Sylvain is taller like this, tougher like this, in control like this. The whole room, the whole world, has gone hazy where it billows around Dimitri, unimportant and uninspiring where it stands compared to Dimitri’s swollen, chapped lips, the curve of his nose, the bright blue of his eyes. They’re bright even now, blown out as they are by their shared high, catching and holding Sylvain’s gaze.

Sylvain isn’t sure how long they stay like that, the butt of the joint long abandoned in a half-empty soda cup. They sit, and they breathe, and Sylvain marvels at how it feels each time their chests bump together, each time Dimitri swells against him and Sylvain leans forward, falls forward, just a little. He thinks he’s still smiling, thinks he can feel the corners of his mouth ache, but he’s sure his mouth is shut, even where Dimitri’s is not. Their lips are close enough to touch, close enough to lean in and take and part and maybe _consume_ if he really wanted, but—Dimitri holds him like this, just like this, and Sylvain thinks he’ll feel the heat of it for days.

Dimitri’s palms against his back don’t shift until his stomach rumbles. They part slowly, not quite kissing, not quite present, and stare at each other through a beat of confusion before Sylvain says, “I think I’m hungry.”

Dimitri laughs—really, truly laughs. His head goes back and his shoulders shake and he has to wipe a tear from his eye, just a thumb below his lashes. He sucks in breath, almost like he’s drinking water, parched for it, and then says, “I’ve heard that can happen.”

Sylvain extricates himself from Dimitri’s lap, which is harder than he expects it to be. “You wouldn’t know,” he says, crossly, because Dimitri ruined the _moment_. Stumbling to the fridge, he adds, “You ruined the moment.”

Dimitri giggles, snorts. It’d be cute if it wasn’t so damn distracting. “If you come back over here, I’ll put my hands back on your ass.”

Sylvain frowns into the fridge before grabbing indiscriminately at a carton of rice. He thinks it’s the rice from earlier, and at this point, he’s willing to take the chance that it’s older. “Too late,” he says. He pulls a fork from the sink, checks that it’s clean enough, and walks back over to where Dimitri now lies sprawled on the floor. “Buck up, kid, there’s always next time.”

“Next time what?” Dimitri rolls to face him, stretched out on his side. He’s got one hand shoved up his shirt, scratching at his chest. Sylvain follows the trail of hair from his navel to his sweatpants and misses his mouth with his fork.

“Next time, ass,” Sylvain clarifies. This time, he doesn’t miss his mouth.

Dimitri hums. “Next time,” he says, and seems content.

Sylvain eats while Dimitri lounges, and when the rice is all gone, Sylvain stretches out next to Dimitri. They shove the coffee table over to the side with the excuse of giving more room, but in the end, Sylvain ends up half on top of Dimitri, one leg hooked over his thigh.

They drift in lazy silence for a moment, but for once, it’s Dimitri who breaks it. “It’s almost Valentine’s Day,” he says, turning to look at Sylvain and getting a mouthful of hair. He spits it out before continuing, “Did you want to do something?”

Sylvain shrugs. “Why would we?”

Dimitri’s pause is a beat too long. “I mean, we’ve been seeing each other for a while, now. Pretty exclusively.”

Sylvain dodges. “I never said we had to be exclusive,” he says.

“No,” Dimitri agrees. “But I have been.”

Sylvain has been, too, but dodging is easier than admitting it. “Very little romance, here,” he says instead. “Even with a great dick, it’s hard to make up for heart.” The words ring hollow in his ears, something not quite truthful to them, but Sylvain finds himself sucked into Dimitri’s long silence.

“I guess it doesn’t have to be romantic.” Dimitri glances at him again, and their foreheads bump. “I just feel like we should do _something_ , you know?”

Sylvain does know. He knows too well, in fact. There’s a nagging feeling, a gnawing in his chest each time Dimitri calls, or when Sylvain sees a text he’s sent at three a.m. It’s something too sweet to be pain, but it’s not far off.

“I think I can allow ‘something,’” Sylvain says. “But I’m not going out, okay? Nothing fancy or—cute.”

He can feel Dimitri’s chuckle roll against him, a soft vibration against his cheek and shoulder. “Nothing fancy or cute,” Dimitri agrees. “In which case, what would you like?”

“What?”

“At least let me get you something.”

Sylvain pauses to think, curling closer to Dimitri and basking in the warmth of their thighs pressed together. “You don’t have to,” he says, voice a whisper. He hopes it sounds more like a sexy rasp.

“I know,” Dimitri says, equally quiet, maybe a bit sexier. “But I’d like to.”

Sylvain curls closer still, hiding his face in Dimitri’s neck because it feels _good_. Dimitri smells like soap and sweat and exertion, a little bit like soy sauce, but mostly—like Dimitri. It calms him almost as much as the warm press of his face against the junction of Dimitri’s shoulder. “Let me think about it,” he mutters, because _this_ is what he wants, and he can hardly articulate that.

“I’ll give you three days,” Dimitri tells him, and Sylvain wants to argue, wants to push back and say, _Why three days?_ until he remembers that, oh, shit, Valentine’s Day is next weekend.

“Wow, thanks,” Sylvain says, dry and exaggerated. “Three days! It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

He yelps when Dimitri flicks him on the thigh.

“ _Think about it_ ,” Dimitri says, and there’s an edge to his voice that borders on powerful. A shiver builds at the top of Sylvain’s spine, but with nothing to release it, nothing to complete it or even name the feeling, Sylvain just twitches against Dimitri’s side.

“I’ll text you when I figure it out,” he promises. It’s a promise he might keep.

“Good.” Dimitri’s arm tightens around him, warm and faintly buzzing where it meets bare skin. The kiss Dimitri presses to his forehead blooms outward, a rush of heat and nerves, and Sylvain’s fingers clutch at Dimitri’s thin, cotton t-shirt. The skin below is scorching.

They stay like that, rolled together like that, curled in and holding each other like that. They make it to bed—to Dimitri’s bed—nearing four a.m., stepping in and out of sleep. They don’t brush their teeth, but Dimitri is clear-headed enough to grab them both a glass of water after refilling the dogs’ water bowl. The dogs both follow them to bed, sleepily wagging their tails when Dimitri reaches a hand down to pet them, and when one of them curls into bed with them—at the very foot of the bed, just below Sylvain’s cold feet—Sylvain can’t even find it in himself to complain.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, face pressed warm against Dimitri’s chest.

“Goodnight, Sylvain,” Dimitri replies.

They drift.

* * *

It’s less than one day later when Sylvain texts, _i know what i want for valentine’s day_. With a period, because it’s serious.

Dimitri’s reply is immediate. _What is it?_

 _a surprise_ , Sylvain replies. _kind of. we have to talk about it_

_you’ll like it, though_

_It’s supposed to be for you_ , Dimitri types, predictably.

_it is_

_it’s something we’ll both enjoy_

_What happened to no romance?_

_not romantic_ , Sylvain replies. _just sexy_

 _I’m free tonight_.

_i’ll think about it_

Then, two hours later: _omw_

* * *

“Are you—sure?” asks Dimitri. His hands are clasped tight in his lap, one thumb picking idly at his nails. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” Dimitri pauses, searches for words. Sylvain watches him pick them, try them, toss them aside when they’re not right. Finally, he says, “You just—haven’t seemed interested. Not since Christmas.”

“Or before then, you could say.” Sylvain bites at his lip, struggling to keep his hands still and calm. He fights the urge to dig below his fingernails, to bite at his thumb, to betray his nerves. Instead, he sighs. “It was—good, though. Christmas was.”

“You seem like you enjoyed it at the time,” Dimitri says, and there’s suspicion in his voice. “I really thought you liked it, but you...just never brought it up again.”

Oh, he had—just not to Dimitri. There’s no reason to mention that, though, no reason to expose himself so quickly. Dimitri doesn’t need to know how his dick lingers in Sylvain’s mind, thick and long and just-too-wide, just enough to stretch, just enough to fill Sylvain to the brink and spill him over. Sylvain had felt it for days, the burn in his thighs, the bruises on his hips, and he’d wondered—how he could ask Dimitri to do that again, without it sounding like an admission. Like—like a confession.

But Dimitri has given him an opening. Valentine’s Day will have to work.

Best to hedge his bets, though. “Is that a no?” Sylvain says, cocking his head in what he hopes is a casual way. His shoulders shrug, a bit too aggressive, and he watches Dimitri’s gaze follow the line of them.

“It’s not a no,” Dimitri says, slowly. “You know I could never say no to you.” His thumb picks at a cuticle, an agonizing _thump. thump. thump_. It’s rhythmic. It’s awful. Sylvain’s hand itches to stop it, but he’s afraid that touch would shatter the moment, and that would be worse than his skin crawling with every flick of Dimitri’s thumb.

Instead, he says, “Good.”

They pause. The space between them stretches. Then: “What do you want me to do?”

Sylvain blinks, smiles. It’s a slow, tentative thing, but there’s relief mixing with the nerves in his chest, and it’s starting to feel a bit like heartburn except for the fact that it’s _warm_. “Anything you want,” Sylvain says, meaning it, even knowing he’ll have to give Dimitri more. “Like, really. That’s the point.”

Dimitri clears his throat, and for one, blessed moment, his hands stop fidgeting, only to rub his sweating palms on his jeans. “I mean—yeah, I get that, Sylvain,” he says, and he sounds a bit cross. “But—I want it to be good for _you_ , not just—not just for me. I can’t just use you like that.”

“Mm.” Sylvain’s not averse to the idea, but he understands why Dimitri would be. “No, you’re right. We’ll need to negotiate.”

“Negotiate?”

Sylvain rolls his eyes. “Obviously,” he says. “Even if I did just want you to wreck me, we both know it’s gotta be an act, right? So we need to figure out what’s going to happen, and what’s not. Like, what you’ll do and what you won’t do, and what I like and don’t like.”

Dimitri nods, intent on being a quick study. His brow is furrowed, and Sylvain thinks that if there were a pencil in front of him, he’d be taking notes. Instead, he says, “Alright. Should we do that now, or—”

“Now,” Sylvain interrupts. “It’ll just ruin the mood on Friday.”

“Consent doesn’t ruin the mood, Sylvain,” Dimitri says, and even has the nerve to frown at him. “It’s very sexy.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, “I always find it so hot when the man I’ve asked to _fuck me like a dog_ keeps pausing to ask for permission.”

Dimitri colors, bright and red from his forehead to his collarbone, and his thumb resumes its picking. “When you put it like that—”

“ _Obviously_ we’ll have, like, safewords,” Sylvain continues. “It’d be stupid not to.”

“And you’ve never been stupid,” Dimitri says, pursing his lips.

Sylvain ignores him. “If you’d really feel better checking in, we can use the traditional red, yellow, green. Or—if you trust me enough, we can stick to a single word for _stop_.” He pauses here, trying to read Dimitri’s face. Then, softly, he says, “It’s nothing I haven’t done before. Just—not all at once. And I—I’d like—” He swallows. “I’d like you to do this for me. Uh, to me.”

He watches the hard line of Dimitri’s shoulders slump, just a little, just a bit. There’s still color on his cheeks and his brows are still furrowed, but there’s a softness there, too. His eyes are sharp and blue and they focus on Sylvain’s face. After a long moment of study—after Dimitri has chewed a bloody hole in his lip, pulled an equally bloody hangnail on his finger—Dimitri nods.

“Alright,” he says, and this time, he seems much more confident. There’s a gentle power when he speaks. “I’d be happy to. I mean—yeah. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, either. Since Christmas.”

Sylvain smiles. “Since Christmas,” he echoes. “You really liked that, huh?”

“Of course I did!” He’s so defensive when he says it, almost aggressive. “It was—it—God, Sylvain, it was incredible. Seeing you like that—”

Sylvain feels himself color, just a bit, just enough to make his ears burn. He remembers it clearly, of course he does, and it’d be a lie to say he hadn’t imagined it multiple times since then, hadn’t almost asked again in a moment of weakness—but to think _Dimitri_ enjoyed it as much as he did, to think that Dimitri imagined Sylvain stuffing himself full of Dimitri’s cock and riding him until he couldn’t stand upright anymore—it’s overwhelming. It’s a lot of other things, too, to think of Dimitri thinking of him even when he’s not there, even when he’s gone, but for now, Sylvain settles on _overwhelming_.

“So we both enjoyed it,” he murmurs. “So there’s no reason to be nervous.” He says it for Dimitri’s sake, but also for his own. His heart flutters quick in his chest, bordering on frenetic, and he’s glad his hands are safe and sturdy where they’re clasped on his knees. To add to the illusion, he pulls one leg over his lap, crossing his ankle just over his knee and leaning back. Very casual, very unaffected.

Very in control.

“You’re right,” Dimitri says, almost a concession. “So—alright. Let’s negotiate, I guess.”

Sylvain lets the “I guess” part slide. He nods. “Let’s do it.”

They do it.

Thirty minutes later, they have a rough outline of their Valentine’s evening. Sylvain will: show up at eight, freshly showered and dressed down. Dimitri will: make dinner, buy lube and condoms, clean his sheets and towels beforehand. Dimitri has license to do whatever he wants throughout the night, so long as Sylvain is fed, watered, and given ample time to recover between orgasms. 

(“Jesus, how many do you expect to have?” Dimitri says. 

“Enough,” Sylvain replies.)

Dimitri will not hit or strike Sylvain outside of spanking, but choking is welcome; Sylvain will be disappointed if he doesn’t have at least one bruise on his hips or thighs. Sylvain expects: hair-pulling; face-fucking; manhandling; brute and unnatural shows of strength.

(“Bonus items,” Sylvain says, ticking off his fingers, “are: biting, name-calling, teasing. A little bit of bondage.”

“Name-calling?”

“Yeah, like—call me a whore, or something. Get creative.”

“Right. Okay.”)

Sylvain’s usual safeword is “eggplant,” but when Dimitri says he’d been planning to make eggplant parmesan, they toss it. Sylvain will use “red,” “yellow,” and “green,” unless otherwise prompted. If he cannot speak, he will tap three times on Dimitri’s thigh or shoulder. In the event that he does, it will be treated as “yellow.”

“I feel like I need to make a spreadsheet,” Dimitri says, towards the end of it. “There’s a lot of _if_ s and _when_ s.”

“Yeah, which is why I didn’t want to do it the night of.” Sylvain doesn’t disagree, though—this is always the hardest part, and while he would never tell Dimitri, he’s still new to it himself. He knows it’s important, knows it better to be safe than sorry—but he feels drained, overanxious, a little bit overexposed. “Is there anything else? Something I forgot?”

Dimitri thinks. “I don’t...think so,” he says, finally. “We’ve got _do_ s and _don’t_ s, general expectations, parameters. All the stuff you said you wanted to talk about.”

Sylvain nods. At this point, he’ll be happy to have it done with. “Good.” He sighs, stretches, forces back a yawn. “God, that was boring.”

Dimitri doesn’t stifle his yawn. “It was important,” he says, meaning: _Yeah, it was_.

“Friday’ll be more fun, I promise.” Sylvain offers a smile. “And, you know, we get to go into it feeling pretty good.”

Dimitri mirrors his smile, a bit weaker, but still soft. Reassuring. “I’m excited,” he says. “I—I’ve been looking forward to doing this again. Someday. Whenever you’d—let me.”

Sylvain shrugs. “It’s a bit more high-stakes this time, isn’t it?” He laughs, a bit raw around the edges. “It’ll be fun, though. It’ll be—good.” He pauses, swallows, forces his brain past his baggage for a single moment. “I’m really excited.”

Dimitri smiles at him then, brighter, bigger, more genuine. “Me, too.”

It’s a plan.

**Author's Note:**

> this is part 1 of 2. the second part is halfway done, but i don’t have an estimation of when it will be posted. i promise it will be finished, in time! thank you all again for your patience with this project.
> 
> special shout out to: socks (@cockships) and diana (@letrasette).
> 
> comments always loved & appreciated! ♥️ find me on twitter @nishtabel!


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